Tag Archives: hermit thrush (Catharus guttatus)

I have been remiss. Not just recently, but over these past months. Remiss in what, you ask? In posting photos, of course!

Mind you, I’ve been busy. I now live at our family farm in East Texas, thus I pull my weight with farm work each and every day. Also, I’ve been somewhat myopic in my focus on writing, namely with regards to my first, second and third novels.

But none of this means I’ve disregarded my passion for photography. Instead, it means I’ve accumulated an unhealthy number of photographs which have yet to be shared. Then again, that describes my usual state with regards to pictures: I take far more than will ever be seen by anyone but me, and regularly I’m forced to delete vast swaths of digital data to make room for vast swaths of new digital data.

Oh well.

Lest I careen off the tracks of coherence and ramble ad nauseam about how little time I have, let me instead direct this train of thought toward my point. Assuming I have a point, I mean.

Back in March of this year I ambled about our delightful haven tucked away in the Piney Woods. With home nestled in the wild, it’s never difficult to find things of interest, and so it was on that marvelously comfortable spring day when…

…I first discovered a veritable horde of eastern tent caterpillars (Malacosoma americanum) wandering throughout the farm, from deep in the woods to right outside the door. Because they produce cyanide, the primary reason for their aposematic coloration, the chickens avoid them and Cooter, our miniature pinscher (or “min pin” for short), must be restrained from eating them.

He eats pretty much anything he can get in his mouth save broccoli, so we really have to manage his consuming ways. It’s not uncommon for him to eat something and then spend several hours swelling from allergic reactions or vomiting from an upset tummy. But anyway…

The tent caterpillars obviously had a good year given their abundance and everywhere travels. And whilst snapping pictures of the little poisonous critter, something leaped over my foot and landed atop a bed of dry leaves. Taking a closer look revealed…

…a northern cricket frog (Acris crepitans)! One of the smallest vertebrates in North America, with adults hardly larger than a thumbprint, these amphibians always bring a smile to my face.

Not just because they’re so small, mind you, but also because they’re quite vocal during mating season and because—at least here in Texas—it’s not difficult to find them throughout the year. Assuming the weather cooperates, of course.

But I had walked to “the bottom” as we call it—where a natural spring and the old pump house hide in woods that stretch down steep hills—because I wanted to check on Mom’s beloved dogwoods. Drought and fire had done in many of the trees. Well, drought and fire had done in many trees period, but I had gone to check on the dogwoods, so let’s keep our focus there.

Much to my surprise and Mom’s joy…

…flowering dogwoods (Cornus florida) had indeed survived, although their numbers stand greatly reduced. And with the tent caterpillars lurking about, well, they’ve become an endangered species at the farm, hence I try to keep an eye on them and initiate action should they need assistance.

With dogwoods confirmed as alive and well, even if in small numbers, I left the bottom and made my way beyond the high pasture to the woods atop the hill, a hill whereupon one can see for miles. And in the woods…

…atrichum moss (a.k.a. lesser smoothcap; Atrichum angustatum) had created thick verdant carpets of green amidst the lifeless detritus from the previous autumn and the just-sprouting greens of a new spring. Several mosses and moss-like plants had reclaimed the forest floor in patches that promised “soon will” in a world of “once was.”

Each deserved attention and each received close inspection. And near one of them…

…wandering across a sandy clearing a perforate dome (Ventridens demissus) carried its abode as it journeyed through woods that made the snail seem microscopic, where trees dwarfed the mollusk, mocked it even with calls of “Hey, tiny!” and “Short people got no reason…”

Undeterred by the utter barbarity of these ligneous cretins, the miniscule creature never thought twice about my in-its-face photography, instead focusing on its trip to who knows where with the intent of taking care of who knows what.

With such a focus on little things that caught my eye, not once did I move through the high tree world without full knowledge of my follower, its song clear and constant, its presence often visible, its curiosity forever contradicting its name. For never far from me and always within sight was…

Though I’ve seen this species of bird many times, never has one been so adamantly attached to my location, the avian security guard protecting nature’s mall. Or at least the inquisitive feathered onlooker who can’t stand not seeing the lumbering ape walking the woods.

I continue apace with my effort to expel bad bird photos from my collection. The experience feels cathartic in a way, a precursor to finally catching up as it were, and by doing so also expunging the digital cloud that grows darker and gloomier as I continue taking pictures: when it’s time to download from the camera, I realize I’m adding to an already overwhelming pile.

Besides, as Amber pointed out in the comments on the first entry, it “[f]eels good to just get them out there and move on.” And so it does.

Not that I don’t have better photos of purple martins (Progne subis), mind you. I do. In fact, I’m working on a post about this species because there are untruths to right and truths to reveal.

As the only bird species on the planet completely reliant on humans for nesting locations, these avian beauties have secrets to tell and interesting stories to relate. They also want to correct falsehoods about their introduced counterparts, the European starling and the house sparrow.

But I’ll save all that—along with the better images—for a future post. For now, let me say I stood beneath one of the local martin houses back in April 2009 and let the shutter fly as adults and subadults arrived from their overwintering below the equator.

And just when I thought I had a good image setup of this male sitting near the entrance to his nest, I flinched as the juvenile male behind him flew into view. Why did I flinch? Because the cold nose of a dog suddenly drenched my leg in ticklish little puppy sniffs.

I could hardly be upset with the bounding bundle of canine antics, cute as it was, and especially because its human companion was so very apologetic for letting the dog interrupt me. Most people don’t notice such things, don’t see or care when dogs run loose and create havoc, interrupting people and wildlife. In this case, though, it was quite different, so I knelt and gave the cute little pup all the lovin’ it could handle—and also chatted comfortably with the tiniest woman being dragged along by the leash.

Less than a week after that event, I enjoyed the waning light as evening settled in on Sunset Bay. Spring migration was in full swing. Black-bellied whistling-ducks sat across the confluence and beckoned for attention, osprey and peregrine falcons swooped through the air, Canada geese tried to remain unseen, and Franklin’s gulls (Larus pipixcan) flocked overhead.

The circling plume of birds danced so high in the sky that I and my fellow observers could only guess at their identities. We suspected we knew who they were, but it wasn’t until I looked at the photos on my computer that I confirmed my suspicions.

And for weeks after that, I saw hordes of these gulls moving through. Each time I stepped outside they were there, floating on gossamer wings held against the sky, all in a perpetual game of chase it seemed, one following another following another.

Then the mass of them would move on to make room for the next.

The very next weekend I lost myself in the burgeoning glory of the Audubon trails near the spillway. The sweet smell of honeysuckle and damp leaves heavy with dew made for a beautiful walk, venomous snakes notwithstanding, and the heavy load of resident and migratory birds meant the air always rang with song.

So you can imagine my efforts to chase this white-eyed vireo (Vireo griseus) based almost entirely on its voice. I had a real hunt on my hands as it flitted amongst the high branches and dense foliage. Mostly I knew it was there by listening for it—then trying to catch up to it for a photo.

I felt mocked a bit with the bird giving me just a quick moment to see it before it vanished again. And I laughed at myself for trying so hard.

Other voices filled the void when I finally gave up, finally let it sneak away under the cover of loud calls and busy activity.

I left the Audubon trails and worked my way toward the heron lagoon near the paddle boat building. Once out of the cover of the dense trees, I found it was terribly windy—windy enough to push me around with ease.

Water sprayed along the shore. I had to keep my distance lest the camera and I get soaked. And of course that’s when I noticed this least sandpiper (Calidris minutilla) running to and fro on one of the boat docks.

Several times the poor little bird found itself redirected by strong wind, and then when it would right its course a healthy splash of water would slam over it like a wet blanket.

But it never stopped hunting whatever it was hunting. The dock was covered with something too small to see but compelling enough to keep the sandpiper’s interest.

Realizing the gusty environment made it too difficult to do photography in the open, I returned to the Audubon forest. The cacophony of birdsong found itself challenged by the groaning and creaking of treetops swaying in rhythm to nature’s drumbeat.

In one of the old fish ponds he lighted upon a branch. And there he stood while sending his voice on the wind.

I took only one photo of him before falling under the spell of his music and beauty; after that, I stood and watched, listened, enjoyed. And what a show he gave me before disappearing amongst thick woods.

That’s when a new voice caught my attention. Behind where the warbler had stood, this hermit thrush (Catharus guttatus) stayed hidden within a tangle of branches and vines while singing the afternoon away.

A few times it flitted up into the treetops before returning to the understory. A few times I almost had a good photo.

Mostly I watched sans thinking about photography.

While taking pictures of nature can invigorate a weary soul, I’ve learned in four decades of life that being a simple observer has more power than does the lens.

Seeing these images that never quite measured up to my standards has reminded me of something: there are times when the camera is an obstacle, a detriment that inhibits our ability to thrive in nature’s care.

Sometimes it’s just more important to sit back and enjoy the show than it is to snap some pictures so you can prove you were in the theater.

a life in progress

About Me

My name is Jason M Hogle. I'm a friend, son, brother, writer, photographer, scientist, naturalist, mathematician, conservationist, poet, technology nut, and many other things. I consider myself a Renaissance man. I have a passion for learning. I also have a passion for living. What you see here is who I am, from my triumphs to my tribulations and everything that fills the space betwixt the two. If you're still curious, read more about me.

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